Amy’s dream from childhood on was to bear a child of her own. She could envision a child’s bright mind and vivacious spirit, and knew that one day, she and her husband would be chosen as caretakers of some auspicious soul. This is the story of her journey through faith, infertility, loss and a miracle. It is a story of late-blooming love.
It begins when Amy was in her early forties, newly married and facing infertility, and ends with the adoption of her daughter. During that course of time, she traveled to Dallas, Santa Fe, and London; to California, France, Colorado and finally, of all places, Las Vegas, Nevada.
For two years, she devoted herself to the process of invitrofertilization, or IVF, an expensive and technologically invasive road. The process was addicting, a throwback to other scenes of addiction in her past, and reflection upon her own birth family.
Amy says she abandoned her authentic voice for that of the commercially-driven medical establishment. There were therapists who told her she could create her own reality, acupuncturists who administered needles and herbs, promising to create the perfect environment in her womb, and psychics who assured her that she would become pregnant. Not one doctor mentioned that the effects of DES, a drug given to her mother while she was pregnant with Amy, that had reconfigured her womb.
Throughout the process, Amy struggled to keep faith. When she lacked the confidence to trust her personal visions, she relied upon the conviction that she could make it happen. From one continent to another, Amy charged into doctors’ offices, invariably leaving a slammed door behind her. Battered and bruised, she kept pushing toward her goal: to have a baby. Amy believed a child was meant to thrive in her arms. In the end, the final and very likely inevitable verdict of infertility drove Amy onto the road of adoption.
The adoption process required her to find a balance between hope and despair. Thrown into an instantaneously intimate relationship with the birthparents, where there were essentially no rules, it became a relentless challenge to simply renounce all of her expectations.
When her faith and marriage suffered because of the ups and downs, she found herself reaching deeply inside for some kind of working grace. What she finally realized, when almost all of it was out of her hands, was that if a child was meant to be hers, the soul would choose. And a meeting of souls, which perhaps began in the ethers, ended with the adoption of her daughter, Marika Rose.
Parenting as an older person also had its challenges. The magic and tenderness of raising a baby also had its times of frustration and exhaustion.
Amy has written this memoir as a synthesis of life events. It is about the long road towards adoption, with unexpected detours along the way, through the all-too-familiar territories of infertility and addiction and the unexpected topographies of both family and artistry. From grittiest lows to magical highs, this book delivers a tale of redemptive love, readers of transformational memoirs will devour.